Memories of Hope
by CornerOfYourEye
Summary: The war was won. He ruled a world without humor, only want. And what the Dark Lord wants, the Dark Lord gets. HEAD THE WARNINGS INSIDE: very dark! One-shot.


A/N: Not beta'ed and I don't own a thing... seriously, nothing...

**WARNING: dark, implied violence, non-con and general uneasiness. This is told from Voldemort's POV, so again: be warned. I left out too graphic scenes, but you get the gist. If it's still too much, PM me and I'll tweak a bit around. Also, I've an uncut version, if you're interested, PM me…**

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**Memories of Hope**

He was laying on his bed, legs hanging loosely over the side, toes just grazing the stone floor. His arms were spread out emphasizing his triumphant daze. He was relishing in his pleasure. The war was won, had been won for quite some time. He now ruled a world without humor, only want. And what the Dark Lord wants, the Dark Lord gets.

The boy had been their hope, so they had waited patiently for him to bring back the light. But that was not what happened. Voldemort knew, if you wanted anything, even hope, you had to take it by force. And he did, _oh_ he did.

But he shouldn't be thinking now. The thinking distracted him from what was happening down below. He raised his head slightly just enough to see a tuft of unruly black hair bobbing between his legs.

He still remembers the very first time. The boy had been spread out across this bed. Too powerless to move, too crushed to protest. He was probably trying to convince himself that it was just a nightmare, that they hadn't lost, that everyone was still alive, that he wasn't here. At least that's what he interpreted when the boy tightly shut his eyes in horror of his current predicament.

He had loosened his robe and looked down at the boy. He was tied down on his stomach, bounded more for decoration than to prevent an escape. It was too late for that. The boy couldn't see what was happening without his glasses and from that angle. He could only hear the rustling of clothes. And that how the Dark Lord liked it, this teasing uncertainty… It was just too easy to exert power. As he crawled on the boy's back he ran his cold digits everywhere across the now quivering skin. He slowly moved his body upwards so he could whisper. He had whispered all his plans that night, all his secrets. As they lay there both naked, there was only truth between them, but it held no hope. He felt himself becoming hard as he brushed against the boy's back.

He whispered some more about the spell he had cast, making it impossible for him to sleep or pass out without the Dark Lord's permission. He also told about the potion he himself had taken, the one that enlarged his infallible stamina even more. He promised a long night. Actually dawn had never come into this room…

The boy hadn't pleaded nor begged, his damn Gryffindor pride withheld him that pleasure for now. But Voldemort was certain that even if he didn't get any pleas tonight, he would reap the screams.

He slid down a bit so he was lined up perfectly behind that skinny ass, just touching... The boy tensed involuntarily. Well, too bad for him, Voldemort thought, as he waited for a few seconds, heightening his own anticipation and the boy's dread. He grabbed the boy's hips firmly and with one fluid motion trusted inwards. The tightness, the warm caverns were overwhelming as were the boy's screams. Still a virgin, how about that? He clenched the boy's shoulder, sunk in his teeth as he gave no reprieve for the next minutes. With an animalistic cry he came. Panting, he lied down on the boy's back with no intention of removing himself, still buried deep.

"One." He had whispered in Parseltongue. "When do you think you will lose count? And at what number will you hope to lose count?"

The boy had tensed and shuddered in return as he tried to muffle those pathetic sobs in the sheets below him. This tangible despair had sent sparks throughout his body. With a smirk he felt himself becoming hard once more. He himself never intended to keep count, the Dark Lord thought as he resumed taking pleasure in those screams.

He enjoyed tying him up, with magic or with more mundane modes, but his favorite way of demobilizing the boy was fucking him senseless. Leaving him spent and empty, not able to do anything but lay down, sweat and cum glistening all over his body matching his glassy eyes. It was a most stimulating sight indeed.

Occasionally, when the boy proved to be particularly troublesome or when he himself felt generous enough the Dark Lord summoned some of his Death Eaters to join. They were always ready to do as he commanded, once they got over their initial surprise of seeing the fabled boy alive, breathing and on his knees. Those nights he was content to watch as his loyal subjects impatiently took turns. They never remembered afterwards.

Truth to be told, he rather enjoyed the defiance his little 'ward' kept showing after everything that was done to him: the angry glares, the attempted escapes, the cursing. Who would have thought the boy had such a foul mouth? And that was just one of the ways he enjoyed the boy's oral skills.

But after a while that spark left, leaving a void filled with submission and he truly became the unresisting slave Voldemort initially wanted him to be. But that became rather unsatisfying after a while.

So he then did something much more devious that taking the boy's body or breaking his mind; he erased his memories. He even healed _all _the damage, making him that defiant little virgin once more. He could start again.

Of course there were still wizards and witches resisting his reign. All across the world little flames of resistance still burned, plotting to overthrow his endless empire. He didn't mind, a little opposition wasn't going to cause any harm. It kept his Death Eaters pleased as they grew in numbers. As long as they had someone to hunt they were kept busy and in line. He even encouraged this resistance, allowing them a few insignificant victories, carefully orchestrated with some helpful clues of his own. In the end it didn't matter, the balance had shifted in his favor for good now that their hope was buried somewhere in a nameless grave. Or that's what everyone – including his Death Eaters – thought. But their hope was currently kneeling at his feet, skillfully sucking as if he's been doing this for years. He had, he just didn't remember.

Suddenly craving more, the Dark Lord gripped the boy's hair and forcefully picked up pace. The boy let him. His hips bucked violently until he saw black stars. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in those waves of pleasure. The boy swallowed obediently, already knowing what his master demanded of him. And knowing the consequences of failing.

Looking down on those bruised lips, the Dark Lord wondered how many Memory Charms he had placed already, ten, twelve? Eventually that didn't matter either. In a few days, maybe a week he'll start over again. He had become quite good in recognizing the signs of total submission. It wasn't far off anymore.

Maybe that old sod of a Dumbledore was right; there were things worse than death.

_Obliviate._

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**So yeah, I warned you all it was dark. Can't believe I wrote this down…and dared to post it, yikes! Anyway, feel free to review.**


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